


What Happens in Australia...

by Alethia



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Australia, Brad POV, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Originally Posted on LiveJournal, Pre-Series, Shore Leave
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-02
Updated: 2008-09-02
Packaged: 2018-06-07 12:59:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6805657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alethia/pseuds/Alethia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Look, I've got forty-eight hours libo here and then I'm gone. You want the sales pitch? Find your campus recruiter. He'd be happy to give it to a middle-of-the-road, no-hair-out-of-place Ivy Leaguer like yourself."</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Happens in Australia...

**Author's Note:**

> This story is based on the fictionalized characters in the HBO miniseries, _Generation Kill_ , as written by Ed Burns and David Simon and as portrayed by Alexander Skarsgard, Stark Sands, and others. It is a work of fiction, ergo it never happened. 
> 
> Pre-series AU. Originally posted [here](http://alethialia.livejournal.com/313278.html).

_March, 1998_

"It'll just take me a minute to get the camera battery," a kid explained, no, _whined_ as he and a group of kids his age followed him in. College students, from the looks of it, and rich ones. 

Overprivileged whiny brats. Fucking great. Brad _hoped_ it would only be a minute. The point of libo was to get _away_ from homicide-inducing idiots.

"Whatever," the other kid muttered. He and his lackeys hung near the door while the first kid followed one of his friends to the counter. That friend caught Brad's attention—he headed straight for an employee, all get-it-done action and focused intent. Purposeful. An entirely different species, it seemed.

The door opening again made Brad look—instinct, no conscious thought to it—to find a Marine he vaguely recognized. Infantry, though. And in uniform. Espera, it informed him.

Espera looked right at him, then shook his head. "You gotta be kidding me. We get forty-eight and you're cruising geek-boy gadget shops?"

"Better than cruising geek-boys," Colbert said, mild.

Espera grinned, all easy and friendly—

And then the college-boy ringleader got impatient. "Hurry the fuck up, would you? I have better things to do than hang out in skeevy electronics stores with jarheads and social outcast fags," he called to the two kids still at the counter.

His vague gesture toward Espera, then to Brad, finally did it. Not that he minded being called names but honestly, it was prissy fucks like these that gave Americans a bad reputation.

"You should take care what you say. You never know who's listening," Colbert said, idly inspecting the shelves, but he was very aware of the lead douche looking over at him, of his scoff. And Espera amusedly taking it all in.

"Yeah, _okay_ ," the kid said.

Espera folded his arms, and rocked back on his heels to watch. Like it was fucking _entertainment_.

"Can I help you?" Brad asked Espera.

"Naw, I'm good. Just waitin' for the Iceman throwdown." God, Marines were such fuckin' busybody, ladies-who-lunch _gossips_.

"Ooh, Iceman. Named after a comic book character; I'm quivering in fear," the kid mocked.

"Dog, you trippin?' They call him the Iceman because he's a badass motherfucker who will twist your head off, spit down your throat, and laugh at the bloodstains he gets on himself. He's an ice-cold, fuck-your-shit-up trained killer. That's whose face you're all up in right now," Espera said.

The kid kind of paled and looked at Brad.

Brad smiled placidly.

The ringleader gulped, mumbled, "Uhh, have to—" and then backtracked it the fuck out of the store. The kid with the camera and his friend, finally done with their purchase, passed by, as well. The friend opened the door a little more forcefully than was necessary. Interesting.

Colbert turned to Espera and regarded him. "You might not be useless."

"Why do I get the feeling that's high praise from you?"

"Gimme a minute and I'm sure I'll get back to mocking you in my head. Or out loud."

Espera grinned and started to say something else, only he stopped when the door opened again and that interesting kid walked back in. "Oh, look, one of them white boys found his balls."

Brad met the kid's gaze—and stared into green, green eyes, clear skin, and, Christ, a _mouth_. He blinked and it all merged into the prettiest fucking civilian he'd seen in a while.

The kid waited patiently, not at all perturbed that Brad was staring at him without saying anything. It didn't escape Brad that he was the only one who hadn't been a useless pest, though he'd come in with all those who had.

"Excuse me for interrupting." The kid nodded respectfully to Espera, then looked back at Brad. "I wanted to apologize for those guys back there. They were out of line and I told them so."

"I got this warm, fuzzy feeling comin' on. Iceman, you feel me?"

"Not if I can help it." Brad turned his attention back to the kid, still standing there like he expected a response, so he half-shrugged. "Don't see me cryin' about it," Brad said idly.

A spark of amusement flickered in, Jesus, really fucking _green_ eyes. But the kid didn't say anything or move to leave. Brad raised an eyebrow.

"No, you wouldn't be. Actually, I wanted to ask you some questions about the Marine Corps, if you weren't too busy."

"Corps groupies? Fuck that. I can deal with phone shit later. I'm out, dog," Espera said. He snapped his fingers at Brad in some kind of goodbye and sauntered out the door.

"Interesting friend," the kid commented. 

"I don't know him."

Which pretty much shut the kid down. "...oh."

Brad mentally rolled his eyes. "Look, I've got forty-eight hours libo here and then I'm gone. You want the sales pitch? Find your campus recruiter. He'd be happy to give it to a middle-of-the-road, no-hair-out-of-place Ivy Leaguer like yourself."

"Already did. He practically dropped to his knees on first sight." Brad would have blinked, but the kid had moved on: "How'd you know I'm Ivy League?" he asked, inane.

Brad snorted. What, was he kidding?

A faint flush tinged his skin and he looked away, something conflicted rising up. "That obvious, huh?"

"Your friend's watch was too expensive, tan was too fake, and accent stunk of good New England stock. Of course he's Ivy. You're here with him but you called him on being a precious fucktard snobby bitch, so you're not lifelong pals. Ergo, school pals. Q-E-fuckin'-D."

"But I don't stink," the kid pointed out.

"Good job grasping the essentials," Brad said, letting the mockery come through his tone. "Hold onto that one for all you're worth."

Which might not be that much, Ivy regardless. Not that Brad cared. Or would even be around him long enough _to_ care.

The kid thrust out his hand. "My name's Nate." He kept holding it out, even when Brad didn't take it.

"Kid, don't you get it? I don't care."

"I know you don't, but at least now you won't be thinking of me as 'kid' in your head," Nate said evenly.

Had some balls, this one.

Colbert didn't take his hand, but shrugged nonetheless. Hell, Espera hadn't been a total waste. Maybe this one wouldn't be either. "Colbert," he said shortly.

Oh, God, he was giving people the benefit of the doubt. What was _wrong_ with him?

Nate blew out a breath and pulled his hand back. "Thought I was gonna have to call you 'Iceman' the whole time." He looked relieved.

 _That_ wasn't a good sign. "And what 'whole time' would that be?"

The kid smiled.

Goddamn his soft spot for pretty mouths. Gonna get him killed one day.

***

Nate trailed slightly behind Brad, but didn't seem to have any trouble keeping up, despite that Brad had a good four inches on him and was currently _using it_ in his stride. He'd decided to cut through Hyde Park and Nate didn't seem to have any problem with that.

Or even _notice_ what with the way Nate peppered him with questions left and right, mostly about the _real_ Marines versus TV commercials or patriotic songs or his jerk-off fantasies, who fucking knew?

"Why'd you join the Marine Corps?"

This was entirely the fault of the USMC's media relations department. Brad vowed to look them up and have them all shot. Or at least give them a stern talking-to about the inconveniences they caused one Brad Colbert. He'd even be all icy-polite about it and refrain from swearing.

"Recon is especially attractive; I like the idea of having some independence of action, but still maintaining a high ethical standard. What do you think?"

On second thought, the word 'fuck' was gonna feature prominently. If he didn't just up and shoot them on sight. 

And Nate didn't seem to be deterred by the silent treatment. He simply forged ahead, like Brad's lack of answer _was_ an answer, completely impervious to Brad's snub.

Brad abruptly stopped walking as recognition filtered in. George Street. He could work with this.

"Are you just gonna follow me around all day?" Brad asked.

Kid didn't even hesitate. "Thinkin' about it."

Thus Brad felt totally justified quickly walking to the whorehouse, which—oh, look—just happened to be at the end of the block. Nate dutifully followed, clueless. Brad turned to take in his expression once he realized just where they were. 

Sadly, but for the initial blush and downcast eyes, it wasn't much worth it. Dammit.

The _establishment_ was one of those sailor-friendly places that had enough of a reputation to be whispered about amongst the men. Like the status-whores most newbies were, enough were willing to go a bit further than the Kings Cross redlight district to find their pussy, if only to say they'd gone. And probably lie about the experience afterwards.

Which meant quite the gathering of guys. First day of libo and it had taken _someone_ here by surprise. Brad looked around for anyone who looked like they knew something. Barring that, anyone who looked female would do.

Nate stood next to him, _right_ next to him, and kept his attention fully focused on him. "Go to a lot of brothels back home?" Nate asked.

"It's Australia; things are different here."

"Convenient."

"Plus, back home we call 'em whorehouses," Brad pointed out. He tilted his head and looked down at the kid.

Nate rolled his eyes, but underneath it there was some kind of amusement.

"Why'd you join the Marines?" Nate tried again.

Brad ignored him when he finally spotted their hostess amidst the madhouse of a scene. No luck. Sailors and Marines abounded and the woman was obviously unprepared for the influx of a bunch of horny pricks who'd been at sea with little companionship and no privacy to speak of.

Brad was not exactly her highest priority. This was quite unfortunate since he was pretty sure Nate wouldn't follow him into a tryst. Now if only the _idea_ of Nate—or his mouth, more like—following him into a tryst didn't have such appeal...

"You know, I'm starting to think you've got a little crush on me. If you're considering a career in the military, here's a piece of advice: they look down on that sort of thing," Brad informed the kid primly.

"You don't say."

After remaining completely ignored, Brad was done. Fuck Marine liberty, anyway. It completely fucked all attempts at losing the kid...or getting him into a highly-compromising situation. Whichever.

"Fuck this. Fuckin' ugly Americans," he muttered as he walked out the doors and back into the muggy Australia heat.

Nate practically tripped over himself to catch up. "But you haven't—" He either didn't know how to say it or say it politely, so he didn't finish the sentence.

Brad rolled his eyes. "Waste of my time." And he'd only walked in to see if Nate would follow so he hadn't gotten invested in the idea of getting off.

Not that the kid knew that, though.

"So...you don't approve?" Nate probed.

"Of whorehouses? I heartily approve." Brad backtracked to the Market Street intersection and glanced around.

"What then?"

"Dealing with slobbering, hamfisted, uncouth boars who stink of their desperation to hide vast, unfailing inferiority complexes with exaggerated proof that their dicks are big enough."

"I take it you don't have that problem," Nate said dryly.

Which gave Brad pause. 'Cause that wasn't something you went around saying to perfect strangers and all.

He let his sly look be as much of an answer as Nate wanted. Then he walked off toward the park.

And Nate _continued_ to follow. Brad sighed internally.

"You know, generally speaking, someone walking away from you is not an invitation to follow them," he informed the kid.

Nate merely smiled—distracting, that—and took in the fucking scenery. Like this was a guided fucking _tour_. "And I thought different rules applied," he said, mild.

Kid had balls _and_ some edge to him.

And a pretty fucking mouth, _Christ_. 

There were many ways this was Not Good. And yet when Nate got caught up in the jostle of a crowd at another intersection, when Brad lost sight of him for a second...he patently _didn't_ duck into the nearest shop and thereby lose his acquired sidekick.

Running was beneath a recon Marine, dammit. It'd be akin to backing down. 

And Brad never backed down.

***

"Why'd you join the Marine Corps?"

"To make the world safe for baseball and apple pie."

Brad had to give him something for sheer persistence. He should find it annoying, but Nate managed to make charming what others made grating. Usually, oh-happy-day idealists made Brad twitch. This one didn't.

Possibly it was his mouth and the way he kept smiling at Brad's more caustic comments. Or it could just be his fucking _mouth_ , Jesus.

Regardless, the fact that Brad was not annoyed...now _that_ was annoying.

He paused in the shade of a fig-lined path in Hyde Park—even he wasn't immune to the view and he took it in appreciatively, if only for a moment. The shade cooled it down slightly, but the air was still humid enough that Brad's shirt was sticking to him. And the kid was still _talking_. 

"Apple pie isn't typically American, you know. It was probably first made in England in the 1500s. The first pie recipe was written by the early Romans, who likely learned it from the Greeks—"

Brad interrupted. "If you're looking to give your life meaning or you wanna help people, go join the Peace Corps."

Nate leveled his gaze at him and it was like looking inside his head, watching as the Gordian knot was unraveled. "You don't think your job gives your life meaning?"

"The meaning of life is that it ends. Now, if you're looking for a swifter end..." Brad spread his hands. 

"So you wouldn't suggest others choose your path? Regrets?"

"Walking into Jaycar this afternoon," Brad muttered.

Nate smiled that smile again, then persisted. "If you chose it for your career, you must see something good in it."

"Remember that part where I'm not a military recruiter? Want someone to talk it up? Go see one of them."

"I do recall something about that...but I'm talking to you right now."

"You're _bothering_ me right now." Brad started walking again, passing businessmen taking breaks, tourists gawking at who-knew-what, others he couldn't place.

Nate kept pace with him still, the shadows dappling him. "Doesn't seem to be much difference, does there?"

Despite himself Brad found he actually liked this one. He was smart, adaptable. He had enough balls to talk back, could think on his feet, didn't give in. The irony was, he'd probably make a good officer.

Not that Brad was about to share that opinion. It'd just encourage him.

"What _would_ your mother think?" 

"She'd probably prefer the Peace Corps," Nate said without pause. It didn't seem to bother him. Not a mama's boy, then.

 _Why_ was he keeping a mental list of things he liked about the kid? 

Obviously months on a boat had addled his mind. Already going soft. Fucking _pathetic_.

They passed by Archibald Fountain—complete with more tourists gawking—and Brad caught Nate looking at it with interest. He didn't slow, though. Single-minded, too.

They lapsed into silence, Nate content to follow without asking more stupid questions that Brad wouldn't answer. For the moment. 

Brad walked them out of the park, then navigated through the Domain and found the pedestrian bridge that he remembered from his last trip. Hmm. Harry's was near here. And all this talk of pie _had_ made him hungry. 

The kid...he could do whatever he wanted. He was hardly Brad's responsibility.

***

Apparently, 'whatever he wanted' included following Brad right up to Harry's Café de Wheels and proceeding to engage in those around them about suggestions. Brad pretended not to know him.

...which didn't really work when Nate up and sat right next to him at a little bench not far off.

Nate frowned again at his pie and poked at the peas with an exploratory finger. Jesus, even _that_ was hot in a 'here let me lick it off' kind of way.

"It won't eat you," Brad commented. He bit a ridiculous hunk off and made the requisite appreciative noises. _Loved_ Australia. Libo was the best thing about being forced to live on floating tanks. Because they got _pie_...and whores, but mostly pie.

When Brad opened his eyes, Nate was watching his mouth, something...interesting in his eyes. He shuttered it away immediately and looked back at his food.

"The green is a bit...different," he tried, tilting the pie and eyeing the peas askance.

Brad snorted. "Stay in college, kid. There's no preciousness about food in the field."

Nate's eyes locked defiantly on his and he took a purposeful bite. Followed by thoughtful chewing and great, like Brad _needed_ more incentive to stare at the kid's mouth.

"Not bad," Nate said idly.

"Blasphemer," Brad accused. His first well and conquered, he moved on to his second pie and watched as Nate finally dug into The Tiger ("It's the classic").

 _How_ did they end up eating together? Where people could _see_ them?

Oh, right, he didn't have stones big enough to kick the pretty boy in the ass and send him scurrying back to his pretentious, unimpressed friends.

"Aren't your friends missing you or something?" he asked, maybe a little abrupt about it.

Nate looked up from his pie, which was now mostly gone. "Trying to get rid of me?"

"Pretty much all afternoon."

Nate's lips quirked, but then he got serious again. "You're more interesting than my friends."

" _That's_ certainly true. Not that it would take much. The possession of a soul, mostly."

Nate finished chewing—so polite—before he answered. "They're really not that bad. Brendan's just easily aggravated and Steve has been a bit...trying." And loyal, too. Even to douchebags when they were acting like, well, themselves. Interesting.

"I'll be sure to write their mothers," Brad said. Then he shoved the rest of the pie in his mouth, not missing Nate's grin at the move, and hopped to his feet, still chewing. Napkins got tossed in a nearby trashcan and he was off again. A quick check behind him told him that yes, Nate still followed.

With a frown Brad realized he was starting to see people he knew...or should know. His dear brothers in arms were more plentiful the closer they got to Garden Island. Some nodded to Brad, recognizing him, some even glanced at Nate, curious.

Right. He should get rid of him. For both their sake's. For real this time.

No matter what his mouth looked like it could do to a man.

Brad spotted a gray and white Naval Police van—Jesus, it wasn't even _night_ yet—one of the guys 'helping' a stumbling sailor into the back. Right. 

Brad stopped walking. Nate followed suite, so it was simple for Brad to press his hand to Nate's chest and push him back against a nearby building. 

It could look like aggression. Probably.

"Go home and marry a socialite," Brad said, low. He didn't miss the way Nate's eyes were kind of fixated on his mouth.

He pressed once against his chest, firmer than he'd have thought, then dropped his hand away and headed quickly for the van. The naval police officer just rolled his eyes when Brad hopped in the back with a snappy salute. It wasn't night yet, so the van wasn't full, but there were still several more guys than was really respectable for the American military.

"Iceman's falling-down drunk and it's not even dark yet. That's fuckin' awesome," someone muttered.

"You pussies sloshed already? Now that's just tragic," he commented, spreading himself out and surveying them loftily.

A thought seemed to occur to the sailor who'd previously spoken...which was most likely a novelty: "Hey. You're not drunk." Like an accusation. "What're you doin' here?" 

"You were just too pretty to resist." Snickers broke out, coupled with mutters that sounded suspiciously like "fuckin' recon." Brad just smiled and leaned back. And focused on not thinking about the way Nate had looked at his mouth, the brief feel of him under Brad's hand.

Done. That was that. It was better; he didn't need this kind of...whatever distracting him from what mattered.

He didn't look out the back window as they drove away.

***

Brad walked into Bourbon and Beefsteak, already rowdy and it was barely approaching dusk. He ignored the joviality of the sailors, the gaudy red carpet, the mirrors, and instead made a beeline for the bar. _Christ_ , he needed a beer. Or twelve. Electronics stores hadn't been able to distract him. And he hadn't even tried to get laid, which was just tragic. 

It'd been a full twenty-four hours and he _still_ couldn't get a fucking ridiculous mouth and too-keen eyes out of his—

Dammit. Either he was already drunk and hallucinating—and if so he'd missed a hell of a good time and needed to protest—or the kid was at the bar. In the middle a Navy-dominated scene, seemingly at ease, untouched beer sweating at hand.

Brad altered his course and settled right next to him. He reached over, plucked the kid's beer out from before him, and downed the whole thing, one go.

Green eyes flicked _up_ to his face when he was done. Brad let a smirk show through. Yes, he really could hold his breath for that long. Wouldn't Nate like a more intimate demonstration?

"That was my beer," Nate accused, but softly.

"Are you even old enough to drink?"

He met Brad's eyes squarely. "It's Australia."

"Didn't think so." Christ, all of twenty years old. He was practically jailbait. He _looked_ like jailbait.

Though the way he watched Brad's mouth as Brad licked the foam from the edge of the glass...that was nowhere _near_ innocent.

Navy. Bar.

"C'mon." Brad tossed down some money and spun the glass off. A few strides had him out in the somewhat cooler early evening air.

"Do you just expect people to follow you like disciples after their savior?"

"Asks the kid who trailed me like an obedient little pup all of yesterday." Brad moved further away from prying eyes, rowdy sailors, and true-to-form, Nate followed.

"Yeah, well, that just got me ditched, didn't it?" He almost sounded bitter about it. Brad turned and walked backwards, caught Nate's eye.

"I was gonna be a good guy," he said. His skin prickled and he had the odd sensation of doing something he didn't like. He felt all...itchy explaining himself like this. Iceman was more a man of _action_.

"I'm sorry?"

"You should be."

Brad resumed walking forwards, turned the next corner, and sped up the pace. Nate jogged lightly to catch up.

"No, wait, what are you talking about?"

Brad waved a hand, painting a picture. "Naïve kid—"

"I'm not a—"

Brad ignored it and soldiered on, led them through another turn. "—in an unfamiliar city, badass Marine out on his forty-eight. Not fair, really. I was gonna be a good guy."

"I have no idea what you're talking about." But the way his voice wavered said he had _every_ idea so Brad didn't even bother calling him on it.

Instead he pushed Nate into the darkened alley he'd been looking for, right up against the side of the building, and pressed their mouths together in a frantic, sloppy, too-hard kiss.

Nate's _whole body_ jerked and Brad could feel it everywhere, traced hands over him to follow that feeling. Nate's mouth opened wider, plaintive sound against Brad's tongue, and then his fingers spasmed on Brad's shirt, gripped, and tried to get him closer. 

Right. No idea whatsoever.

But that thought got a little lost because Nate pushed his tongue in Brad's mouth, body melting against his, and _fuck_ , not innocent by half, this one. Not with the way he was trying to crawl into Brad's body through his mouth.

Brad dropped a hand to the front of Nate's jeans. He was already hard, ready to go, up and bucking into Brad's hand when he'd barely even touched him and fuckin' hell, twenty years old.

They were in an _alley_.

Brad pulled back on a sucking gasp, then planted a hand firmly on Nate's chest to keep him from following. Nate gave it a good shot, though.

"Stay here," Brad said, low. He didn't miss how Nate licked his lips. "I'll be back in five minutes."

***

It felt like much, much longer even though Brad rationally knew it had only been about four-and-a-half. The want coursing through his system made everything that wasn't pushing Nate against solid objects seem to take far too long.

He stepped back into the alley...to find no Nate in sight.

Fuck. Well, he deserved that. He'd _planned_ that, for Christ's sake. Orchestrated it, because he was that fucking good. An easy out—show the kid what he was getting into, maybe even intimidate him with what _exactly_ he was getting, then leave him alone and if he wanted to duck away, it saved face for both of them.

God, what the fuck was he doing, making shit easy on people? People he'd _just met_?

Fucking pathetic.

"About time," Nate said, low. He curled out from a shadowed doorway and even just seeing that mouth again made Brad's cock _jerk_.

"Not even five minutes," Brad said. He closed the distance between them, but instead of touching he tossed a key. Nate caught it reflexively, hands quick and precise. Brad pressed his tongue against the back of his teeth.

Nate simply looked at the metal, uncomprehending.

"Room 307. You take the elevator," Brad said, low.

Then Brad backed out of the alley before something unfortunate happened—like he dropped to his knees on the spot and got Nate to make more of those breathy, wanting sounds. He fumbled his way into a stairwell and took the stairs three at a time, beating Nate handily. He barely glanced at the room—who fucking cared, anyway?—before he heard someone fiddling with the lock.

Brad yanked open the door with one hand, got a grip on his shirt with the other, and pulled him in. They were kissing before the door even closed. Then they were kissing against the closed door, only kissing seemed inadequate, what with the way they were _devouring_ each other—tongues and teeth and biting, already squirming out of clothes.

Using the grip on his shirt, Brad propelled Nate into the bathroom, then stripped him of said shirt entirely.

"Thought the military looked down on this sort of thing," Nate said, then gasped when Brad tweaked a nipple. He'd pulled Brad's shirt up, only now his hands seemed helplessly tangled in the fabric.

"It's Australia," Brad said shortly.

Nate huffed out a laugh, then choked on it when Brad found his cock and squeezed him through the material of his jeans. He let go just as abruptly.

Brad found his eyes and said, deadly calm, "Take off your clothes."

A visible shiver ran through Nate's body, then he blinked and sprang into action. Brad did the same, getting the shower on. By the time he turned around Nate was already plastered against him. There was a lot of skin on display in the mirror, but way more intriguing was the expanse of skin rubbing up against him.

Fuck, _yes_.

Brad pulled Nate's mouth to his again, then shucked the rest of his clothes and shoved Nate into the spray, following. Skin against skin and, even better, wet skin against wet skin. Brad sucked on Nate's tongue and thrilled at the muffled little sounds he was making.

He dropped to his knees with barely a thought. Only now he'd surprised Nate—eyes widened, quick breath out.

Brad smirked and went down on him, making sure to hold his hips just in case.

It was a good thing, too. Nate might have crumpled on top of him otherwise.

"Je-Jesus—Christ, that's— _fuck_ , I'm—" Like he forgot he was half-through a curse when another one came to him and Brad hummed around Nate's cock and then _sucked_. Knew what felt good here, got a confirmation with Nate's half-whimper. 

Lapped at the head of his cock, teasing, and got more of those pretty, pretty sounds but, surprisingly, no insistent hands prodding him on. Brad peered up, holding off the spray, and found Nate white-knuckling the shower head and curtain railing instead. 

He pulled his mouth away and Nate moaned some kind of plea in response.

"Such a polite young man," Brad crooned. He nudged Nate's knees and Nate obligingly widened his stance. Then he lowered his head and again took him in his mouth.

This time Nate's moan was all appreciation. Brad kept his mouth working, but released one hip to trail his fingers back. He curled them around Nate's balls, then pressed just behind. Nate squeaked and bucked under his hands, but Brad had expected as much so he took it in stride. He kept sucking, kept pressing a finger back until he found Nate's entrance, then paused there.

"Oh, my God," Nate rasped. Which wasn't any kind of protest.

Brad hummed again and pressed one finger into him, just slight, getting him used to the idea. The water helped.

Nate shuddered and gasped and didn't pull away. Even better.

Brad sped up his mouth as his finger breached him slowly. He pulled it out only to press back in, a little further each time. Nate didn't know which way to move—into Brad's mouth or back against his finger.

It was...ridiculously fucking hot, honestly. The combination of sheer want and hesitance had Brad _aching_. But he wasn't focusing on that.

His jaw was getting kind of tired and Nate wasn't freaking out, so Brad decided they could move the fuck along, already. He pressed his finger deep and crooked it.

"Fuck!" Nate half-wheezed, half-shouted. "Do that—" Brad did. And again. And kept going, timing his mouth with his finger until Nate was shaking and babbling and otherwise letting out little helpless sounds that made Brad's cock _pulse_. 

"Fu-fuck, I'm gonna—" Brad pulled off and replaced his mouth with the hand that'd been on his hip, jerking him fast and hard. He leaned back, moved his hand and finger in concert, and watched. Nate's face crumpled, mouth open and panting, and one more twist of Brad's hand, one final crook of his finger, had him crying out hoarsely as he came all over Brad's chest. 

Nate's ass flexed around Brad's finger, which he tried not to focus on...nor on the way his cock was hard and leaking. Instead he watched that pretty, pretty mouth, watched Nate's eyes flutter open, so little green left there, probably not even seeing anything.

Nate slipped to his knees, chest heaving like he'd just passed the Corps PT with better than a perfect score. And then he found Brad's mouth and they were kissing again, uncoordinated and messy, with the spray sluicing over them...and huh. He hadn't expected that. But he kissed him back anyway and traced light fingers everywhere he could reach.

Brad batted at Nate's hands when he made shaking but heartfelt movements toward Brad's cock. Jesus, was this kid something. He'd probably done the whole bed-of-roses devirginizing thing, too.

Brad kept kissing him, folded his arms around his hips and let his fingers trail back. One hand spread Nate wide while the other pressed careful fingers against his opening again. Nate moaned and pressed against his fingers. Fuck, yeah.

Brad let one finger slide just slightly inside him, different angle this time getting the same enthusiastic response, and right. He needed to get them out of here or he really would give in to the temptation to hump himself against Nate's hip and that'd be the end of it.

Brad pulled his hands away—test of will, that—and turned off the water instead. He broke the kiss, stood, found a towel...when he turned back Nate was in the same position, mind apparently still on vacation. 

Brad got him up and moving, ushered him out—remembering to snag his own pants and a little bottle from the counter—and then toweled him off. He held Nate steady as he pulled off the comforter. The lightest push pitched him face-down on the sheets. But life was coming back to him because he pulled his head up, half-looking over his shoulder. 

Brad gritted his teeth. Fuck, that hit him low and forceful. Lips puffy, eyes soft, little beads of water trailing down from where they'd escaped Brad's less-than-thorough toweling. And looking over his shoulder while splayed on a bed. A fucking wet dream, come to life.

Brad's cock jerked at the sight. Like he needed a reminder that he'd been hard for way too long.

Nate didn't seem to realize just what he looked like. "What are you—"

Brad climbed in after him. He pushed Nate's legs apart and pulled his hips back slightly.

A little alarm seeped into Nate's eyes so Brad tried to smile reassuringly. "Relax," he said, even as he spread him and pressed his finger against Nate's entrance.

"How am I supposed to relax when you're doing _that_?" Nate gasped.

"Excellent point." Brad removed his finger and Nate made a noise that was pure protest. Brad would mock him for his apparent inability to make up his mind...but he had other things to focus on.

Nate's protest turned into a strangled shout at the first swipe of Brad's tongue at his entrance. Brad chuckled, just light, then did it again and got the same response. Then again. He circled his tongue lazily just to hear Nate make those little whimpers. 

"Oh, my God, oh, my God, oh, my God—" He'd taken up a litany, interspersed with moans and gasps, and when Brad finally pressed his tongue _in_ Nate honest-to-God shouted, only into his fist, though, some kind of preservation of dignity or consideration of the hotel's other occupants or something. Jesus, this kid.

Brad wanted to be inside him _right fucking now_.

He pulled his tongue out and pressed a finger in. Cheap lotion from the bathroom made it easier and Brad slid in and out a few times before adding another finger.

Nate's breath hitched, but his body relaxed after a moment, allowing Brad in. He scissored his fingers, spread the lotion, got Nate used to the feeling. Nate moved into his fingers without artifice—wholly unpracticed and genuine. It was more effective at chipping away Brad's control than any professional display he'd ever seen. And Brad had seen quite a bit.

The kid was playing him perfectly. Brad should be appalled at himself.

Instead he added a third finger, which got a hiss of discomfort and sudden stillness. Brad shushed him, soothed him, nibbled along his spine, fingers going slow. By increments, Nate relaxed and Brad's fingers pressed in more easily. Eventually Nate was squirming back against his hand and trying to hump the mattress, dignity be damned. 

Brad figured that was as good a sign as any. 

"C-condom," Nate said suddenly. His voice sounded strained, like he'd been shouting into a storm and the storm had won.

"Such a Boy Scout," Brad rumbled. He kept his fingers moving and snatched his pants with his other hand. It wasn't easy doing this one-handed, but Brad had never met a challenge he didn't fucking _conquer_ like the pussy bitch it was. 

He tore into the little foil packet, got it on and slicked himself...and then looked down to see Nate's shoulders tensed.

Fuck. Reality had to come back to him _now_?

"Turn over," Brad said shortly. He pulled his fingers out—God _damn_ —and tugged at a thigh.

"What?"

"Over." 

More insistent hands spurred Nate on and he finally complied with shaky, jerky movements. Then he was sprawled on his back, cock jutting out, hard and leaking. Brad slipped between his thighs, leaned over and pressed their mouths together again. Like _that_ Nate's whole body relaxed, his legs folded around Brad, tongue pressing back against his.

Scary how easy that was. A little heartening that he wasn't the only one with some kind of immediate, instinctive response here...not that that made it better.

Brad kept kissing Nate, but grabbed a pillow and worked it under his hips. Nate made a questioning noise into his mouth and Brad pulled back. "I want to see you," he murmured in explanation and only once he'd said it did he realize it was true. Yeah, Brad needed Nate to relax but damn if he didn't want to watch that pretty mouth call his name as his cock pounded into him.

Too many things flickered through Nate's eyes at once, but then he grabbed for Brad and hauled him back to kiss him again, so he was guessing Nate approved. It was frenzied and rough and at some point Brad's fingers pushed into him again and it was like a shock to realize yeah, he really _was_ that hot and tight. It wasn't just the gilding of memory. 

Brad eased his fingers out, pulled himself out of the kiss because if he had to wait any longer, he was gonna lose it. He lifted Nate's legs to his shoulders and lined himself up. "Breathe," he said lowly.

Nate sucked in a breath and Brad pressed just the head of his cock _in_ and they _both_ stilled at once. 

Fuck. _Fuck_. Just exactly as hot and tight as he'd thought and _then some_. Brad controlled himself—short pants in and out—as he felt Nate forcing his body to relax.

After several interminable moments Nate nodded. Brad began a torturous series of tiny thrusts in and out, moving deeper every time, but only just. Nate was gasping before Brad was even halfway inside him and by the time he was fully seated they were both slick with sweat and panting.

"Fuck, you're fucking tight," Brad groaned. 

"Fuck me," Nate growled back and clutched at him with aimless, helpless hands and legs. Brad needed no further encouragement.

Brad shifted back and thrust in. He leaned down to kiss Nate; it was a good thing Nate was flexible. He just sucked on Brad's mouth and moaned when Brad moved out slightly and then thrust back in again.

As Nate got accustomed to it, Brad's thrusts became longer, more forceful. Nate braced himself against the headboard and urged him on, little repetitions of "please" and "fuck, _right there_ ," that had Brad's vision flickering way sooner than it should.

But fuck if he was gonna come first, dammit.

Brad pulled back from their kiss, then his hand found Nate's cock and jerked him off in time to his thrusts. Nate moaned, long and loud, consideration well and truly _gone_ and fuck, if it wasn't the hottest thing he'd seen in a while. 

After barely half a dozen jerks, Nate keened high in his throat, arched, and came. His ass squeezed and Brad kept his hand moving and hips jerking by no use of higher brain functioning because that was _it_ for him, mind wiped clean at the sight of Nate biting his lip and out of control, at the incredible heat and pressure around his dick.

Pleasure flashed white, then dark across his eyes, and Brad rutted, he was sure, said something—no idea what—and came so hard he barely managed to stay this side of conscious. His muscles were liquid when he regained enough awareness to think about it. He still had Nate's legs over his shoulders and fuck, that had to be uncomfortable...not that Nate was in any state to complain.

Both of them shaking and stupid-sated and completely _out of their minds_.

Brad disentangled them, pulled out on a whimper from Nate, then straightened Nate's legs so he was laying flat. He dealt with the condom, rolled off the bed onto unsteady feet, and somehow got himself to the bathroom. He wiped himself off, grabbed a cloth for Nate, and stumbled back to the bed.

Nate made vaguely protesting noises at being cleaned up, but Brad ignored him and dumped the cloth on the floor. He slumped down onto the bed and was promptly asleep.

***

Brad woke to the feeling of a mouth sucking enthusiastically on his cock. 

A sharp spike of lust had him conscious and thrusting into a hot, tight mouth before he even realized that this was unusual. Strong hands held his hips down and Brad groaned, tested the grip. 

Clear green eyes met his when he looked down. Heat promptly shot through him. The sight of that pretty mouth wrapped around his cock made Brad's hips flex, totally involuntary, and Nate made a quelling sound at the back of his throat, a nonverbal 'don't fuck with my rhythm, fucker, I'm concentrating here.' Nate broke his eyes away and pressed his mouth down again.

It was sloppy and halting and far from the professional blowjobs he'd gotten used to. And yet for all that it had him grasping to hold onto any semblance of control, muscles tensing far too soon.

"Nate," he hissed, a warning. Nate just made a vague humming sound, not quite right and still perfect enough to hit Brad where he lived, and then he was coming out of fucking _nowhere_ —body taut and heat making him gasp. Nate pulled back to the head, but not off, _Jesus_. His hand stroked Brad through it as he attempted to swallow and mostly failed.

Brad's mind was still blank when Nate moved up and kissed him and fucking hell, he was licking his own come off those pretty cherry lips and the kid should give _lessons_ , no professional could compare. 

Nate latched onto his mouth and scrambled up so he was sitting astride Brad, leaning over so their mouths stayed in contact. Then it was more deep kissing and Nate's cock pressed up against him and right, he hadn't come yet.

Brad sat them both up, wrapped a hand around Nate's cock, and jerked him slow and dirty. He kept his mouth on Nate's, sometimes kissing, sometimes pulling back a few scant inches to watch Nate's eyes close every time he angled his wrist just so. He was watching this kid get off, close as he could possibly be, and this went way further than mere interest in a pretty mouth. If it were anything more than a one-time deal, Brad might be vaguely worried.

But it wasn't, so he let himself enjoy the show—the way Nate's eyes would flutter closed against his will and then he'd snap them back open again. The way the body in his arms twisted and flexed, all tightly coiled energy and leashed strength. The way he bit his lip, not to keep from making noise but in a desperate attempt to hang on just a few more seconds.

Brad made a sympathetic, pleased sound when Nate finally came—jerky thrusts into Brad's fists until he stilled and his cock _pulsed_. He crushed their mouths together as some kind of residual heat swept through him.

They flopped back—sweaty, panting, and slick with their own come. Nate aimlessly nipped at his chest and Brad realized that yeah, he still held the kid loosely in his arms.

Didn't keep him from dropping right off to sleep, though.

***

Waking to the feeling of someone _on top of him_ , that was definitely unusual. His deep breath shifted their equilibrium and the other body nestled over with a soft, sleepy sound that made Brad swallow reflexively, made him want to touch.

He _recognized_ it.

Worse, he recognized his own desire to mark, claim, own. It was an instinct that had caused him nothing but anguish—betrayed and dumped in one fell-swoop. And how preposterous; he'd known the kid for barely a day. Maybe a little more, given the grey light of early morning filtering in through the window.

Brad nudged out from underneath Nate, careful not to wake him. He...didn't need to deal with big green eyes and a clever mouth right now. Especially not when he lingered too long looking at pale skin barely covered by white sheets, unconsciously splayed arms and legs not even meant to be an allure, but oh, how they _were_.

He needed to wash off the scent of massive amounts of sex, _right the fuck now_. Then maybe he'd be able to think straight.

Brad stumbled to the bathroom and turned on the shower. He let it get hot and then just stood under the spray for a while. He let it beat into his shoulders, oddly tense, especially considering all the brilliant sex he'd been having.

He felt cooler air even before the shower curtain was pushed back and a sleep-mussed Nate stepped into his space. The kid was still rubbing his eyes. It made him look, well, like a _kid_.

Exhaustion didn't stop him from arching into Brad's body and trying to rub something else, though. "Morning," he rumbled, all low and sleep-worn.

Brad wanted nothing more than to haul him back to bed and have sleepy, touchy-feely morning sex with him.

Brad didn't _do_ touchy-feely sex. Not anymore.

"Indeed, it is," Brad said. He avoided Nate's kiss by ducking under the spray. Nate's mouth landed on his shoulder, which seemed to suit him just fine, what with the way he started mouthing it.

"You never told me, you know," Nate said against his skin.

"Told you what?"

"Why you joined the Marines." He said it simply, like it should be obvious.

Brad breathed out a laugh, disbelieving. Single-minded didn't even cover it. 

Nate hmmed and nipped at him, an air of patient waiting about him, the kind of man who was perfectly content to measure strategies in terms of decades, if not longer. Not a kid. Not at all. Amazing the disparity looks and, he didn't know, _essence_. Fundamental nature.

Brad's cock twitched. He could feel Nate half-hard against him.

"I don't know," he said honestly, surprising even himself. He carded his fingers through the hair at the base of Nate's skull. "Some altruistic urge to serve my country, an affinity for the warrior culture...a combination of a lot of things."

Nate made an appreciative noise against his skin and thrust into Brad's hip.

Well. Wake-up hand jobs couldn't hurt, really. What was once more gonna do?

He shifted and reached down. Nate was thrusting into his hand before Brad had even closed it all the way around him. Then Brad's cock was encircled in an equally-tight grip and it was _too_ hot, with the water, the flex of muscles, the way Nate was _biting_ at his collarbone.

Nate palmed the head of Brad's dick and Brad grunted as more unexpected heat swept through him. Nate did it again, fully-focused on that and sucking a motherfucker of a hickey into Brad's skin.

Brad tilted his head back and let him. Jesus.

He jerked Nate faster, but it wasn't exactly rough, not with the water slicking down and the way they were moving against each other. Nate's other hand slipped around to creep down his ass and Brad sucked in a breath.

It emboldened him—not that he needed to get any bolder—and Nate pressed a finger at his entrance, while still sucking on his skin and jerking him off with practiced, swift strokes.

The press of that finger _in_ was his undoing. 

Brad shuddered and came, pathetically quick and yet not really caring. The heat that swept through him felt like a brand, nothing he wanted to be rid of.

His hand tightened around Nate and Brad felt a sting in his shoulder, then the wild pulsing of his cock heralded Nate's own orgasm.

They leaned against each other, just breathing, for far too long, really. And yet Brad couldn't seem to summon the will to move. At all.

Only they eventually had to. Nate was the one who pulled away, rinsed himself off in the now-lukewarm spray.

They were quiet as they dressed. Finding his clothes gave Brad an excuse, smoothing them out another. But eventually there were no more delaying tactics to be had.

Nate was looking right at him when Brad raised his head and met his eyes.

"Guess that's it, then," Nate said baldly, dropped between them like some kind of gauntlet, though Brad had no idea what to do with it.

"Indeed. It's been a pleasure," Brad said, formal. 

Nate's lips quirked, that spark of humor returning to his eyes. "I'd hope so."

Brad smiled, small, then lifted his hand and kind of...ghosted his fingers over that gorgeous, brilliant mouth of his. Nate opened it, brushed his tongue against Brad's fingers, and started to get a dangerous look in his eyes. Brad quickly dropped his hand and yanked open the door. 

No use battling the inevitable. There was a world to get back to.

***

_September, 2002_

"Lieutenant Fick, I'd like you to meet—"

"Brad," Brad said quickly, ignoring Mike's odd look at the interruption. Because, just... _fuck_.

Nate blinked back at him—or Lieutenant Fick, rather—like he needed the extra time to process that yeah, he was seeing this. 

Brad could relate. 

Had they been standing there staring at each other mutely? That wouldn't look good.

"Welcome to Second Platoon, Lieutenant," Brad said formally. "I trust that the good Gunnery Sergeant is giving you a comprehensive introduction to First Recon."

"Thanks. And yes, he's been very helpful. He's no military recruiter, but for being forced to babysit a newbie, he's been pretty patient."

Brad blinked as that filtered through the memory of a long-ago libo, the two of them making their way through a humid, sticky city.

"Okay, I'm still standing here, right?" Wynn asked, expression puzzled.

Nate— _Lieutenant Fick_ —smiled at him...and Jesus. Brad had had dreams about that fucking mouth. It looked like those wouldn't be stopping anytime soon, either. "Your mental faculties are sound, Mike. Shall we meet the rest of the men?"

Mike gestured across the field. "It's this way."

Nate turned and nodded to Brad, once. "Nice to meet you, Brad." He very slightly emphasized the name, then with another quirk of those lips he was gone.

Brad stared out over the field, seeing nothing. This was fucked on too many levels to even _contemplate_.

Pretty goddamned mouths. Always got him into trouble. The kind of trouble he could get into with his platoon commander, especially if they were out in combat together...well. Brad resolved not to think about that.

Because that plan had worked _so well_ , years ago, when he'd resolved to put a pretty mouth right out of his mind.

But he wasn't thinking about that.

***

Fin. Feedback is adored.


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